Blank
by Indigo Tantarian
Summary: He doesn't see, think, or feel anything... if he can avoid it. A short, confusing piece focusing on Silent Doll Strings.


Author's Note: I had a dream about Silent Doll/Strings the other night, so I was prompted to write about him. He's probably my favorite Ghoul! And severely under appreciated, even more than Shadi. So I thought I'd give him a little drivel (though he'd probably be better off without it!). This is… confusing. It's meant to be that way, though. Try to follow along.  
  
It was hard to even decide how to write this. I'm not sure I could form enough coherent thoughts in a first person point of view, though I've seen it done quite successfully ("I am Nobody" by Matt Morwell).  
  
Warnings: Confusion, mention of child abuse, etc.  
  
Karim: Indigo doesn't own Yu-Gi-Oh or make money from things like this… but you knew that, right?

BlankThe (man? boy? even male at all?) crouches on the park bench, hands spread out in front of him. Eyes wide, staring in front of him. Staring at nothing. Not following passersby or hands waved in front of them or birds flitting past.  
  
The body stands perfectly still. Not his body. Just his shell. He has a mind in there somewhere, but it's buried deep. If you managed to break through the other, stronger man's control (which, mind you, is very hard), you would still have to go through what seemed like miles of emptiness, of numbness, of pure nothingness, until you thought there was nothing more than that. But finally, after a few hard shells of fear and blankness, which got more brittle the farther in they were, you might come across the body's original mind. But only if you looked closely. It hides among the memories of the past that haunt it. It can never escape them.  
  
That is not to say he was stupid, or mentally deficient. He was at least as intelligent as the average person. He had been born with quite a normal mind, and had managed to keep most of his brain cells in functioning order, much to his frequent dismay. It would be easier if he couldn't think, couldn't understand. But fate hasn't been that kind to him.  
  
He'd had a sharp mind, back when he had used it. He learned to read much earlier than most children. He'd read whatever he could get his hands on. He found handbooks, instruction manuals, directions for how to play sports, how to dance, how to mime, how to speak other languages, draw and paint beautifully, to Duel, and to kill. Sciences, math, history, everything else. Anything he could find, he tried and he perfected. He had to, to keep his mind off other things. But there is only so much the human mind can ignore.  
  
Is it the present? Was this in the past? He doesn't know. Doesn't care. Not paying attention to that, to anything.  
  
They say self-reflection is good. He didn't know. He hadn't had anything but self-reflection for years, and he wasn't enjoying it much. All he wanted was a clear mind, a blank mind. He was about as close to it as a person could be without being comatose.  
  
Passersby whispered about his creepy stare. But he never stared at anyone. Even if they stood nose to nose, he never looked at them, though his eyes remained pointing straight in front of him. He didn't see them. He didn't see anything. There was nothing to see but a blur.  
  
Not that he was blind. His eyesight was very sharp, actually. But they hadn't focused for years. How many years has it been? Maybe five, maybe ten? He doesn't know. Doesn't care.  
  
He sometimes sees the blur of a hand fly towards his face. He doesn't blink, doesn't move. The faint sound of jeering laughter echoes in his ears. The hand never connects with his face. It sometimes doesn't. If it did, moving would do no good. Far better to stand there, still as a statue, and wait for it to go away, for everything to go away.  
  
Somewhere in oft-ignored nerve-endings, he feels tiny bird feet, feels some light, sharp pecks. The bird would like to eat him, he's sure. He wouldn't mind that. He can't remember the last time he ate. Wasn't he forced to do that two or three days ago? Maybe so. But who can say? It was against his will, whenever it was. When did he last have a drink? His mouth is dry. It always is. That may have been a few days ago as well. And sleep? He can't stand to do that. He's trained himself not to, for the most part. Too many dreams, too many memories. There is no peace in sleep. There is no peace in anything.  
  
Except in the blankness he retreats to. Only then can he even hope to try to feel at peace. It's not complete, but it's close. When he numbs himself to everything and lets his eyes slide out of focus, the pain is deadened. Focusing only brings pain. The world is too sharp, too painful to focus on any sights, sounds, thoughts. He knows that another controls his body. He can't care. He recognizes that presence and lets it do what it wants with his body. It doesn't matter what that is. After what he himself has done, it can't be anything too shocking.  
  
When the memories hit him at full force, there is no outward sign except maybe the slight constriction of the pupils. If it's especially sharp, a bystander might notice a sharp intake of breath. But only if that bystander was less than a foot away.  
  
_The skinny boy crept, perfectly silent, into the small dingy kitchen. It had once been a cheerful yellow, but he had never known it that way. He opened the refrigerator with painstaking slowness and quickly scanned the stained, sticky shelves for food. Hearing a crash and a mutter in the other room, he hastily grabbed some leftover pizza from only a day or so ago and shut the door a little less carefully. Flinching at the soft bump it made, he hastened to get out, but his worn shoe caught in something sticky on the floor and made a deafening ripping sound in the quiet apartment. Swallowing a yelp of despair, he made a break for the dark hallway that led to the relative sanctuary of his closet.  
_  
No. I will not think. I will not remember. There is nothing. Blank. It's blank.  
  
_There was a sickening crack as a booted foot kicked him into the corner of the wall. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a silent scream, petrified of making any sound. He felt a stinging slap across his face, followed by a rain of blows. He tried to scoot away to the side, but someone else was there to kick him in the side. A whimper escaped him. The pizza had fallen to the floor a while ago, and his ears were filled with angry shouts about how he wasted the food, he took what didn't belong to him cursing him…  
_  
NO! Stop it! Blank! Nothing! Unfocus!  
  
_Hours later the child woke again, in too much pain to stay unconscious. Again it was silent. He cried silently, wolfing down the crushed, filthy pizza to try to silence his stomach. Then he slowly pulled himself up against the wall, wincing at every movement. He limped quietly out of the kitchen and was headed back to collapse in his closet and try to sleep. He was so tired… But something made him stop. He looked towards the living room. The curtains were drawn, as usual, and the television was on, blaring some talk show. The two adults sprawled on the couch in front of it, passed out. The entire room reeked of alcohol._  
  
Please stop… Please… Can't take it… No more… Can't get away…  
  
_Their heads had fallen back, dirty necks bared to the flashing light of the television. The boy stood there for a long moment, just looked at them, shuddering in pain and exhaustion. Somewhere in the bottom of his subconscious mind, an idea came to him. Slowly, he straightened up a little and walked back into the kitchen._  
  
No…  
  
_He opened a drawer and gazed silently at the knives inside for a moment._  
  
I don't want to see this again… Please, not again…  
  
_He slowly took out two medium-length steak knives, glancing at their serrated edges. Deliberately, he turned. It might have looked like he was struggling with something, but in fact, he was thinking nothing at all. The pain was distant, the misery not worth noticing. There was only the bright glint of steel._  
  
Blankness. Nothing. There is nothing. No thoughts. No memories.  
  
_Slowly approaching the snoring adults, the boy gazed into their faces, as if in a dream. As the television went black for a second, he looked into it to see his face staring back. As a commercial came on, he looked back down. He raised both knives, his mind quickly analyzing without understanding.  
_  
Leave me alone…  
  
_Both knives rose up. Both came to rest at the side of the necks. The jugular artery, he remembered vaguely, in a haze. Larger than any other without opening the rib cage, and very easy to get at. And carrying the most blood._  
  
NO! Make it stop! Will not focus, will not remember, will look away! Nothing but blankness!  
  
_The knives came down in perfect synchronization. Twin spurts of blood erupted from the gashes in the necks. It gurgled down throats as two sets of eyes popped open in horror and agony, trying to yell, to scream, to stop it. Large hands grasped at smaller ones, only tearing themselves apart more. Blood fountained all over the boy, the man, and the woman, covering them in red until he could see nothing else. Their movements quickly came to a gradual halt._  
  
Oh God, no…  
  
_Days later, the police had found the boy, still standing in the same position, knives still embedded in necks, and completely covered in dry blood. He was tried in a juvenile court on two counts of manslaughter. Patricide and matricide. He moved between jails and mental hospitals until one Malik Ishtar appeared, seeking obedient servants who would not try to pull away from his mental control._

__  
  
…So here he stood. He had retreated as far back into his mind as possible, scrunching every fiber of himself into a corner, and still he couldn't hide from the memories.  
  
Does he want to die? No. He wants nothing. Wanting leads to pain, to disappointment. And it is a conscious thought. He wishes for nothing, for pure nothing.  
  
…A call comes from the other, the one controlling him. Before he dives into the blankness, he finds himself wondering why he even bothers ordering. He is nothing more than a puppet, a Silent Doll. As he finds himself jumping off the bench and running down the street, he feels nothing. Thinks nothing.  
  
-  
  
-  
  
Endnote: Eh, I'm not quite happy with that ending… But it'll do. And I did use quite a bit of stock material with those flashbacks. Maybe even for all of it. I don't know. Please leave me a review, I'd love to see what you think! Should I try to write for some of the other Ghouls? Pandora (Arcana) and the masked ones (Umbra and Lumis) kind of appeal to me. Or should I be tied up away from the computer and any writing implements forever?


End file.
